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It all starts with a stupid dream.
A nightmare, really. It’s a nightmare. Elliott doesn’t have them often, but when he does, they’re painfully intense and realistic. Painfully intense and realist enough that, more often than not, they take a physical toll on his body.
It’s funny, really. The ship’s medical screening will patch up anything that happens to him in a game, but when it comes to injuries that happen on the ship itself, it’s suspiciously absent. It doesn’t come to his rescue when Crypto accidentally dislocates his shoulder (Elliott’s never sneaking up on him again), or when he burns himself while cooking, or when he’s repairing the holosuit and accidentally zaps himself on an exposed wire.
Multiple bullet holes? Sure, the ship’s got him covered.
Falling out of bed and pulling a muscle in his back? Apparently, the Legend insurance package doesn’t cover that.
It’s really not bad, as long as he doesn’t… well. Move. If he lays in bed, facedown, with his arms by his side and doesn’t breathe too deeply, it doesn’t hurt. Anything outside that, though, and pain lances up his right side, sharp and stabbing.
He knows that Ajay will give him meds for it, if he asks her. But she’ll also ask how he hurt himself, and Elliott has a reputation. It’s not very devil-may-care of him to flail himself into a pulled muscle because of a stupid nightmare. And it’s not that he thinks Ajay would judge him - she’s far too sweet for that, too caring to make fun of him for something so out of his control. But that’s just the issue. She’s too caring. She’d look at him and there would be an emotion in the look and Elliott can’t deal with pity at the moment. Not when he’s feeling so damn pitiful already.
So Ajay is out of the question. Elliott briefly considers asking Octavio, because from what he’s seen of the stim it’s pretty fucking miraculous, but he shuts that idea down too. It likely won’t help, and then he’ll be in the same position he’s already in except he’ll be too hopped up on adrenaline to sit still like he needs to.
There’s really only one option left, and Elliott hates it, but he hates the pain he’s in more. Maybe. It’s more of a toss-up, but the pain is leaning on the side of worse at the moment and he’s quickly reaching his limit of what he can handle without crying out of sheer frustration. He hates crying.
Gingerly, he eases himself up off the bed. His back protests the movement, sending a sharp twinge of pain up his spine, but being immobile until it fixes itself just isn’t an option. They have matches coming up, and the other Legends jump at any sign of weakness - he wouldn’t put it past Renee or Bloodhound to deliberately aim for his lower back if either of them knew the state he was in. That’s how the game goes, and he doesn’t hold it against them, but that doesn’t mean he wants to be easy pickings, either.
It’s nearly noon, but Elliott is still in his pajamas. He briefly considers changing, but that requires movements and contortions that he knows he’s not capable of. He sends up a quick thought of thanks to whatever higher power there is that he didn’t choose to sleep naked, and then gathers up his resolve and straightens as much as he can.
The walk through the ship is slow, and it would be mortifying if there was anyone around to see it, but the place seems almost deserted. Elliott’s not going to complain, but at the same time, he hopes he’s not the only one around. If he is, then his little excursion will have been pointless - the only reason he’s not facedown on his bed is because there’s an inkling of hope that he can be fixed.
Medbay and the labs are on the underside of the ship. Elliott has only ever visited out of necessity, i.e., when he’s woken up there after getting eliminated in a match. Ajay’s setup isn’t bad, but she isn’t the only one who uses the area. The rest of the space is Caustic’s.
Nox’s, really. Elliott knows he’s not supposed to know that. No one’s supposed to know that, but he sincerely doubts he’s the only one. Crypto’s always eyeing the scientist in a way that’s half-familiar, half-mistrustful, and if that doesn’t hint at some sort of past, Elliott’s not sure what does.
But none of that matters. Elliott doesn’t really care who the guy used to be. Currently, he’s a creepy scientist who has a macabre fascination with death who also won’t pity him if Elliott goes to him for some pain management meds. Will he make Elliott feel small and worthless and suspiciously like a lab rat? Probably. But if it makes his back stop hurting, it’s a risk Elliott’s willing to take.
The door to the lab yields when Elliott leans against it, sliding open with pneumatic whoosh. Nox is inside, bent over a table, a beaker full of a suspicious green liquid in one hand and a pen in the other. He’s scribbling notes onto a piece of paper, but he looks up when Elliott enters. As he sets the beaker down, some emotion crosses his face - it’s there and gone too quickly for Elliott to identify, but the sight of it still startles him.
“Is there something you need?” Nox asks, his gravelly voice sending an entirely involuntary shiver up Elliott’s spine. It’s a small motion, hardly noticeable, but it still makes Elliott’s jaw clench with pain. And he knows it shows on his face, because Nox is stepping towards him a moment later, and there’s genuine concern in his expression when he comes to a stop within arms’ reach.
“What hurts?” he asks, and his voice is still a deep baritone but there’s a softness to it that Elliott’s only heard a handful of times before, and he’s absolutely never heard it directed at him. No, Nox saves that voice for Natalie, and Elliott’s not sure how he feels about having it directed at him, but he stows whatever feeling it is for him to dissect later. He’s a man on a mission, and that mission is to fucking feel better.
“Back,” Elliott grits out. “Pulled something, or - I don’t know. Not a doctor. Can you fix it?”
Nox sighs, and it’s definitely an exasperated sound. Elliott’s infinitely more familiar with those. But instead of kicking him out, Nox ushers him forward, farther into the lab, and Elliott imagines that it feels exactly how being ushered into a lion’s den would feel.
“Sit.” Nox points to the corner of the room, and Elliott follows the gesture with his eyes, his gaze landing on an exam table. It looks clean, sterile, but also out of place among the rest of the lab equipment. Elliott thinks about asking, for a moment, but he quickly decides he doesn’t actually want to know the answer. The less he knows about what Nox gets up to in his lab, the better.
He shuffles over to the table. Naturally, it’s just a little too tall for him to be able to sit down on it comfortably, i.e., with his feet touching the ground. It also means he has to lever himself up onto the flat surface, and that action pulls the muscles in his back in all the wrong directions. A truly pathetic sounds escapes his lips, and he’s barely done more than stand up on his tiptoes. Maybe Nox has a stool somewhere, or maybe he can do whatever he’s going to do even if Elliott is in a collapsed heap on the floor, or maybe…
Large, strong hands settle on his hips, and Elliott squeals.
He kicks out instinctively, some semblance of self-preservation kicking in, but even a solid kick to (what he assumes is) a shin doesn’t make the hands falter. Instead, their grip tightens until it’s almost bruising, and then they lift him off the ground and Elliott hasn’t been picked up since he was a kid, since before the last of his brothers went off to war, and it makes his stomach swoop in a way that’s not entirely pleasant, but not entirely unpleasant, either.
“Easy, now.”
Nox’s voice is barely more than a rumble in his ear, and his hands are like vises on his hips, and it’s counter-intuitive but Elliott still feels some of the panic drain from him. He relaxes, just a hair, and lets the other man finish lifting him onto the table. He lets Nox position him, too - in for a penny, he tells himself. If the scientist is going to try to pull some bullshit of dubious morality, he’s going to do it regardless of whether Elliott cooperates or not.
Nox lays him out flat on his stomach, and it’s marginally more comfortable than standing but not by much. He shifts, restless, his breath huffing against the plasticky surface of the exam table. “I could have laid down in my own room,” he says. “And it’s not like the manhandling made the trip down here worthwhile. So unless like, this is some sort of miracle massage table, I’m just going to mosey my way back on up to…”
“Can you handle needles?”
Elliott’s mouth slams shut. He’s babbling, he knows he is, but it’s instinct at this point to fill the silence. And with a guy like Nox, there’s a lot of silence, broken only by cutting quips about someone’s inherent stupidity. But a direct question? That’s unusual. Nox doesn’t ask things like that, about someone’s comfort level.
“Needles are fine,” Elliott says slowly. “I mean, if they have a purpose. This is not me giving you permi...peremis...persim… whatever, giving you the okay to just stab me whenever.” He turns his head, trying to look at the man behind him. “Why? Can you fix me with a shot?”
Nox steps off to the side, out of Elliott’s field of view. The man thinks about craning his neck to follow him, but even the thought has him wincing in sympathy for his poor, abused muscles. Instead, he lays his head back down, making sure to sigh loudly enough for the rest of the lab to hear him. “So, what’s in this miracle shot? Is it the good drugs? I mean, I’m not gonna complain as long as it fixes me, but like, how long am I gonna be knocked out on my ass for? I need to be in tip-top shape for the games. That AI voice is coming ‘round to me, I can feel it. I want to impress her, and getting eliminated because of a bad back is not impressive. The only thing worse would be…”
“Elliott.”
Nox’s hand comes to rest on the small of his back, and Elliott tenses. He also shuts up, which he assumes was Nox’s intention. He can’t help it. Elliott Witt talks when he’s nervous, and having Alexander Nox hovering over him while he’s lying prone on a table is making him really fucking nervous (he thinks that’s a legitimate response, and he refuses to feel bad about it).
“Sorry,” he breathes. “I know that, like, my general existence annoys you, which means I probably owe you an extra thanks for doing this for me. So, thank you. Again. Did I already thank you? I can’t remember. So, uh maybe ‘again,’ I guess. I…”
Elliott trails off as Nox’s hand moves. It leaves the small of his back, but it returns to touching him a moment later, this time covering the back of his neck. Elliott can’t help the shiver that passes through his body. Nox’s hand is sure, certain, firm on his neck, and it’s not much of a stretch of the imagination to think that, if Elliott tried to move, Nox would hold him down against the table, pinning him with nothing more than a hand.
To Elliott’s surprise, his dick twitches in his pants. He’s glad he’s on his stomach, or his reaction would be excruciatingly obvious, and that’s not a humiliation he thinks he can live through. And really, he should know. He’s got a long list of humiliating experiences to reference.
Pumpkins, he thinks, and shudders.
“Elliott,” Nox says, and his voice is closer now. “In order for me to help with the pain, you have to relax. Our dear friend Ajay will, well, at least attempt to do horrible things to me if I accidentally paralyze you.”
Elliott tenses at the word paralyze. “Um,” he says “Is… that’s an option? Like, that’s something that could happen? You know what, it’s all good, I can deal with the pain. I’ll just go groundside and see what I can rustle up for some good old-fashioned illicit…”
Nox laughs. The sound is low, guttural, and it makes Elliott’s skin break out into goosebumps. It’s not an unpleasant sound, but it’s also not one Elliott has heard often enough for him to be entirely comfortable with it. “Um,” he says again, eloquent as always. “Yeah, cool. I’ll just… go, now.”
He goes to move, to press himself up off the table, and he’s instantly reminded that Nox’s hand hasn’t moved from the back of his neck. The scientist applies just the slightest bit of pressure - not enough to hurt, but definitely enough for Elliott to get the point: don’t move. The laughter, at least, has died off. Small mercies, right?
“For someone as prone to amusement as you are, I assumed you would recognize a joke when you heard it.”
“Not funny!” Elliott hisses, before he can think better of it. “God, you’re an asshole.”
Nox chuckles again, and the sound is warmer this time, less villainous and more humorous. “Take off your shirt,” he says, after a moment. “I need clear access to your spine.”
“Because that’s a comforting sentence,” Elliott grumbles. But Nox takes his hand away, and Elliott does as he’s told - shifting, he wriggles out of his shirt, tossing it off to the side blindly. He doesn’t think Nox would hurt him - not in any permanent ways, at least - but his stomach is still coiled into a bundle of… nerves. Sure, he’ll call the sensation nerves. It’s better than calling it simmering arousal or anything like that. Because it’s not. Elliott’s damn dick just can’t tell the difference between sexy manhandling and Nox’s definitely not sexy manhandling.
Not sexy, he thinks at the general area of his groin. Down, boy.
“I plan on administering an epidural steroid injection,” Nox says, somewhere behind him. “The procedure is simple, relatively. I will inject a mixture of an analgesic and a corticosteroid between the…” He pauses, and his hand comes up to rest on Elliott’s lower back. He presses two fingers against the trickster’s spine, presses, and then moves them slightly before pressing again. This time, Elliott winces at the pressure. “Ah,” Nox continues. “Between the L2 and L3 vertebrae, then.”
Elliott shifts uncomfortably. “Okay,” he says, “not that I don’t appreciate the step-by-step narration, here, but. It hurts. Anytime you want to get around to making it stop hurting, that’d be great with me.”
The next thing that comes out of Elliott’s mouth is a yelp. It’s undignified, and it’s high-pitched and sharp, but it’s warranted, damn it, because something cold and wet squirts over the small of his back and of all the sensations Elliott was expecting (stabbing, poking, etc.), slick was not one of them. So he yelps, and Nox laughs, and Elliott thinks about how he should have just stayed in his room.
“You do need to relax, Witt,” Nox says. And then, inexplicably his hands are flat against the small of Elliott’s back, spreading the cold liquid around and… oh. Elliott feels himself flush, hard and fast, all the way up to the tips of his ears. He chokes on a word, maybe a question, maybe a denial, but Nox just shushes him and continues to spread the oil over the expanse of Elliott’s bare back. Elliott has a fair idea of what’s coming next, but he’s still not prepared when Nox’s fingers press into his skin and drag down along each side of his spine.
Absolutely no one is going to be believe that Alexander Nox gave him a massage. Elliott’s not sure he even believes it himself. But that’s what’s happening - the pressure is firm but gentle, no twisting or digging or sudden movements, just smooth slides of fingers and palms along the parts of him that ache the most.
Elliott sighs, relaxing a little more. If he doesn’t think about who’s touching him, it’s not so bad. It might even be good. Nox knows what he’s doing, obviously, and Elliott hasn’t had a massage in… in too long, he thinks. Christ, he needs to get out more. He feels a little more blood rush south, and he amends the thought. I need to get laid more.
Nox’s thumb swipes over a tender area, and Elliott tries to muffle the groan that spills from his lips, but it’s too little too late. The sound is obscenely loud in the quiet room, and for a moment, they both still, Elliott with his face half-turned into the table and Nox with his thumbs resting in the dimples in the small of Elliott’s back.
“I think that’s enough,” the scientist says, and maybe it’s Elliott’s imagination, but his voice sounds rougher, deeper. It’s pleasant, and this time, Elliott doesn’t try to deny it. He closes his eyes, sinking a little deeper into his loose-limbed, pliant state.
“You don’t get to judge me,” Elliott mumbles. “Getting turned on by a massage is normal.”
Nox’s hands leave his back, but this time Elliott bites back the noise he wants to make. Christ, how desperate is he? The massage was nice, but Elliott’s got lines that he won’t cross, and one of those lines is begging someone like Nox to touch him. Elliott doesn’t need to beg people to touch him. He just needs to show up at a bar and flash a smile and maybe manifest a decoy to show off a little, and people end up begging him to…
“This won’t hurt.”
Nox’s voice is assured, confident, and Elliott finds himself trusting the words despite his better judgement. “Okay,” he says with a small nod, more to himself than anything else. “Okay.”
As it turns out, Nox is right. The needle doesn’t hurt. Elliott’s aware of it, the same way he’s aware of Nox’s palm pressing flat on the right side of his back, the same way he’s aware of the cool air of the lab against his bare skin. It doesn’t hurt, but he feels it, and then he assumes that Nox depresses the plunger because, suddenly, blessed numbness spreads across his back.
“Fuck,” Elliott breathes. The numbness swallows up the pain, and relief floods Elliott’s system so fast he feels dizzy with it. Tears prick at his eyes, but he doesn’t care, because he doesn’t hurt anymore. The numbness spreads, but it doesn’t eclipse Elliott’s whole body like a pain pill would - instead, it stays localized to his back. Elliott tries wiggling his toes, huffing happily when he finds that he still can.
“Fuck,” he repeats. “That… fuck, man, thank you.”
Nox makes a sound that Elliott can’t identify, something that’s almost a growl and almost a scoff. It’s a very him sound, Elliott thinks, and he laughs softly to himself. Here he is, categorizing the sounds Nox makes, describing them, thinking about them. Why is he thinking about them?
“You’re not too bad,” he says, aloud. “I dunno why you try to act like a dick all the time.”
The period of silence that follows Elliott’s statement is long and uncomfortable. Like everything else that came out of his mouth, Elliott hadn’t stopped to think about it, hadn’t paused between formulating the thought and speaking it. He groans, turning his face into the table, and he’s about to try to come up with a follow-up when Nox coughs, quietly.
“Take as much time as you need,” the man says, and his voice sends a shiver up Elliott’s spine once again. It’s darker, deeper, somehow, and it’s resonating in all the right ways. Elliott wants to blame whatever Nox injected him with, but he knows that’s not the truth. The truth is, Elliott likes to show his gratitude. And, in this case, a ‘thank you’ card doesn’t exactly seem… enough.
Elliott hears Nox turn, hears him start to walk away, and he makes up his mind.
“Not even gonna cop a feel?” Elliott mumbles, and the footsteps stop.
“Careful, Witt.” Nox’s voice is a deep, quiet rumble, and it sends another shiver up Elliott’s spine. The trickster doesn’t try to stop the reaction. In fact, he rolls with it, letting the motion rock his hips against the table. “Testing my patience won’t be satisfactory for either of us.”
Elliott squirms, his mouth falling open as he all but ruts against the table. His motions aren’t desperate, not yet - he’s showing off, making himself pretty. Satisfaction can (hopefully) come later. “‘m not trying to test your patience,” he says. “I’m offering. Not teasing.”
Elliott doesn’t hear Nox move. For such a big man, it doesn’t seem feasible for him to be silent, but Elliott has no idea that he’s getting closer until a big hand settles in the small of his back, pressing just firmly enough that Elliott’s hips stutter to a stop. He groans again, fingers curling around the edges of the table. “Come on,” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice. “Alexander, I swear to god, I’ll…”
Suddenly, abruptly, Nox’s hand slides into his hair and yanks. Elliott scrambles to follow the tug, tears springing to his eyes involuntarily at the sting as Nox pulls him up into a kneeling position, and then keeps pulling, making Elliott’s back arch in a way that he wouldn’t be able to maintain if he wasn’t literally being held there. His arms flail for something to grab onto, but he can’t reach the table anymore. He has to settle for wrapping them around Nox’s arm, the one that’s attached to the hand that’s fisted in his curls.
“Sorry!” he gasps. His vision is blurry, but he can see Nox’s outline above him, looking down at him. Elliott feels small. The first inklings of fear start to creep in. If Nox intends on silencing him, there’s not much Elliott can do. The holosuit is up in his room, neatly tucked away, and completely useless to him. He’s a good enough scrapper in a pinch, but this is a lot fucking more than a pinch. “Sorry,” he repeats. “I don’t - I haven’t told anyone, and I’m not gonna tell anyone. Your secret identi… identatit… idaten… fucking, your name is safe. I promise. I promise!”
“Shh.” Nox shushes him, and the grip in his hair relaxes, just a little. Elliott takes a breath that’s more ragged than it has any right to be. “If I was upset that you knew, you wouldn’t have had the chance to apologize. Pretty as it is, a neck like yours snaps just as easily as the next man’s.” Nox regards him, cocking his head, and Elliott feels more hunted than he ever has in his life. “I’d still like to fuck you, if that’s what you were offering.”
Elliott shudders, and a tear spills out of the corner of his eye. He could say no. He knows he could say no. Nox would probably sneer and call him a tease, but he’d respect Elliott’s ‘no.’ That’s what he’s doing, with that last phrase. Checking in. Making sure the fear that’s pouring off Elliott in waves isn’t overwhelming him, giving him a chance to recant his offer.
If he’s honest with himself, it’s a close call. He’s teetering on the edge between the two options, between staying and leaving, and he’s still six of one and half-a-dozen of the other when Nox’s grip in his hair goes tight again, painfully so.
“I’m waiting,” he says, and his voice is calm, but that edge is back, and that’s what makes the scales in Elliott’s mind tip wildly.
“Yes,” he says, and his voice has a rasp to it that’s new, that comes from his body’s reaction to the pain of having his hair pulled. “Yeah, that’s what I was offering.”
Nox smiles, and it’s lecherous and predatory and all the adjectives that Elliott wouldn’t normally associate with sexy, but something has to be crossed in his brain because his dick twitches. It’s tenting his pants, now, straining up against the soft cotton, very clearly eager to continue on with whatever Nox has in mind.
“Good boy,” the bigger man purrs. He releases Elliott’s hair abruptly, and Elliott has a brief moment of panic when he starts to fall backwards. It’s just a moment, though. Nox’s hand returns to his shoulder and shoves, none too gently, pushing him back face-down on the table. Elliott barely catches himself.
“Rude -” he begins, but then Nox’s hands clamp around his ankles and pull, hard. Elliott slides down the table unceremoniously, struggling a little until he realizes that Nox isn’t trying to pull him off. He’s just moving the trickster, positioning him like he wants him. And how he wants him, apparently, is bent over the edge of the table, legs dangling uselessly off the edge.
“Oh,” Elliott manages, and then the hands are moving again, hooking around the waistband of his sweats before yanking them down. They don’t go far - the elastic snaps back under the curve of his ass, and his dick is still trapped inside the pants, straining even more in reaction to the manhandling.
“Don’t move,” Nox growls, and Elliott tries, he does, but the moment the other man’s hands leave him he squirms, trying to get comfortable. He wiggles, reaching with his toes to try to find something to brace himself against so he doesn’t feel like he’s just hanging there, but he doesn’t manage much searching before…
Crack!
Elliott hears the noise before he feels the pain, warm and sharp, blossoming over his ass. And even with the pain and the noise, it takes him a long moment to realize that it was Nox’s hand that caused it, that the noise was the sound of skin hitting the skin and the pain was from getting spanked. Spanked. Elliott opens his mouth, no idea what he plans to say, but he doesn’t get a chance to flounder.
Nox’s hand returns to his ass, not nearly as hard but just as rough, fingers digging into the meat of it with enough force that Elliott knows he’s going to have bruises. He whimpers. He whimpers again when Nox squeezes, and he’d rut his hips against the table in a desperate attempt for some friction if he wasn’t absolutely certain Nox would spank his ass black and blue for it.
“I said, don’t move.”
“...’kay,” Elliott mumbles, and he knows it’s probably not the answer Nox is looking for, but it’s apparently satisfactory enough because he doesn’t get spanked again. Instead, he hears Nox retreat. The other man doesn’t go far - Elliott guesses he’s at one of the nearby cabinets, though Elliott’s not sure he wants to think about what Nox is looking for. He doesn’t think about it, or, rather, he doesn’t have time to, because the footsteps come back a few moments later, stopping right behind him.
Elliott’s not sure what he expects, but it’s not for Nox to grab one of the globes of his ass and push it to the side. He also doesn’t expect the sensation of just… being looked at. Elliott flushes, hard. He’s not easily embarrassed, not by any stretch of the imagination, but being so fundamentally exposed and just examined, it’s… it makes his cock leak and his ears burn red.
Then Nox spits, right there, right on the part of Elliott he’d been staring at, and the trickster’s flush deepens. He can feel it dripping down over his hole, over his taint and down over his balls, and he knows that Nox is looking, watching, watching him lay there and take what’s dished out to him without complaint. But Elliott’s not going to complain, not when he’s more turned on that he can remember being in a long, long time.
Two fingers shove into him abruptly, and Elliott cries out from the shock of it. It burns, but in a good way, in the best way, in the way that has Elliott’s toes curling and has him panting, suddenly, open-mouthed, against the table. It’s rough, and it almost feels careless, but then Nox curls his fingers and sparks dance on the edge of Elliott’s vision and he thinks calculated carelessness. That’s what it is. Enough to make him feel objectified, but not enough to really hurt him.
Nox pistons his fingers a few times, not enough for Elliott to get used to the stretch, but enough for the slide to be a little easier. There’s more slick than just spit, too - not enough that he’s sloppy with it, but enough that there’s no drag when Nox presses his fingers in up to the knuckles. Then the fingers are gone, and Elliott feels Nox step closer, feels the rough material of his pants against the sensitive skin of his thighs and his ass and oh, the other man is still dressed. The sound that comes out of Elliott’s mouth is mostly a whine, definitely nothing understandable, and behind him, Nox just laughs.
Then he lays a hand on the nape of Elliott’s neck and lines himself up.
Elliott’s no connoisseur of getting fucked in the ass, but he knows what going bareback feels like. And maybe it shouldn’t send a shiver up his spine when Nox’s cockhead spears him and he knows that there’s no condom, no barrier between Elliott’s insides and Nox’s thick heat, but it does. It does, because Nox’s cock is fat and thick and it’s stretching Elliott open in an exquisite way that’s absolutely going to leave him gaping afterwards. Gaping, and leaking, because Nox didn’t deign to use a condom.
The hand on his neck squeezes, holding him in place, and Elliott doesn’t understand why until Nox just… doesn’t stop moving. He doesn’t give Elliott time to adjust to his girth, doesn’t rock the head in and out of him in a gentle, teasing fashion. He continues pressing his hips forward and Elliott takes it, all of it, because there’s no other choice. He grasps blindly at the table as he’s filled, and it can’t be more than a few seconds before Nox bottoms out but it feels like it goes on for an eternity. Elliott, white-knuckled, pants.
“Shit.”
Elliott’s voice is breathy and too high-pitched, but there’s jack he can do about that. He’s wound up, coiled from the base of his spine to the tips of his fingers and he knows, somehow, knows that this is the memory he’s going to jerk off to in the future, when he’s alone, spread-eagle on his bed with three fingers deep inside himself. This is what he’s going to remember, and it’s never going to be as good, but even a shadow of everything he’s feeling is going to be more than enough.
Nox takes Elliott’s muffled curse as acquiescence, and he grinds himself forward, the last half-inch of him sliding into Elliott’s red, abused hole. He stays there for a moment, buried up to the hilt, and Elliott wonders if he’s pulling himself back from the edge, if perhaps the sadistic scientist is more affected than he wants to let on. He wonders, but only for a moment, because then Nox’s other hand is curling around his hip, pinning him to the table in another place.
When Nox begins to thrust, he’s not gentle.
He’s not mean, either, though. Not really. He’s rough, fucking into Elliott with enough force that the ridges of his hips knock against the edge of the table, hard enough that when Nox’s cockhead nudges against his prostate, Elliott spasms. But he’s not mean. He doesn’t work a thumb in where Elliott’s already stretched wide, doesn’t angle to avoid hitting his sweet spot, either, although the nudges and touches seem almost accidental. It’s rough and hard and it’s good.
Nox shifts, dragging Elliott back just a little, and the angle changes. Elliott yells, he knows he does, because the stimulation to his prostate goes from soft and accidental to hard and deliberate. It’s a lot, it’s too much, the pleasure of it bordering on pain. Hell, Elliott’s not sure he can tell the difference anymore, because Nox’s fingers are bruising his hip and that feels good, too. Everything feels good. Even the sensitive head of his dick rubbing against the wet patch of his pants feels good, that same pleasure-almost-pain that feels like it’s going to twist up inside Elliott and consume him.
Elliott’s breath hitches in his throat, and behind him, Nox laughs again. The sound is full and dark and Elliott’s sure he can feel it, all the way up in his chest. “I always knew you’d take it like a slut,” Nox says, and Elliott can feel those words, too, except they curl deep in his gut, stoking the fire that would have him humping the table it if wasn’t for the bigger man’s firm grip on him, holding him in place. God, he wants to get off. He wants to come, but he knows if he peaks before Nox, the scientist will fuck him through it with no regard to Elliott’s oversensitivity. And if Nox comes first… Elliott flushes, thinking of shoving a hand underneath himself to jerk himself off while Nox’s come drips out of him.
Nox groans, and the hand that’s been gripping the nape of Elliott’s neck slides into his hair. The bigger man makes a fist and pulls, and Elliott can’t do anything except arch his back and tighten every muscle in his body. Nox’s groan turns into a growl, and his cock seems to swell impossibly larger inside him, and then…
Elliott feels it filling him, filling the space that Nox carved out for himself in Elliott’s body. He chokes off a moan - he can already feel it spilling out of him, leaking out around Nox’s softening cock, dripping down over him like Nox’s spit had before. He shivers, squirming, trying desperately to free his trapped cock so he can at least rub off against the table, but the elastic of his pants is still caught around him and it’s tight and confining and he whimpers, jerking his hips forward in an attempt to get himself off, to try to get himself off, because he’s so hard it’s starting to hurt and if he doesn’t come in the next thirty seconds he’s pretty sure he’s going to die.
Then Nox is shifting, sliding out of him, and more of his come drips out of Elliott’s hole. He can feel himself gaping, on display, and the flush that had been starting to recede flares up again, staining his cheeks. “P-please,” he stutters, hating how his voice cracks. He sounds pathetic - he sounds desperate, and he knows that’s what Nox was driving towards but he can’t help it. He is desperate. “Fuck, please, I need to…”
Nox’s hands land on Elliott’s hips, and then he’s being flipped over, his back hitting the table hard. His legs are still dangling over the edge of it, but the movement freed his cock from his pants. It bobs against his stomach, red and swollen and sensitive, and he’s about to reach for it when Nox bats his hand away.
The scientist’s fist closes around his cock, just on the right side of too tight, too dry, and jerks him, fast and rough.
Elliott screams when he comes.
He doesn’t think he passes out, not entirely, but he does lose himself a little. His mind goes hazy and pleasantly blank as the aftershocks of his orgasm ripple through him, and he’s not sure how much time passes before he comes back to himself, but it’s long enough for Nox to have found a warm, wet cloth, long enough for him to have returned to Elliott’s side and cleaned him up. He’s gentle, and it’s unexpected, but it’s also right in a way that Elliott doesn’t really want to think about.
He doesn’t have a lot of choices, though, because his legs feel like jelly and the rest of him isn’t much better off. He makes a sound, soft, inquiring, and when Nox laughs this time, it isn’t dark or cruel. It sounds like he’s actually amused.
“Stay as long as you need to,” the man says, and Elliott expects him to leave, but instead Nox settles himself at a table close by, picks up a pen, and starts to write.
Elliott lays back against the table, closes his eyes, and falls asleep.
If, later on, he wakes up in his own bed, he doesn’t question it. He’s well-fucked and satisfied, and his back doesn’t hurt, and he feels good. Good enough that he thinks that maybe, the next time he needs to get patched up, he’ll forgo Ajay’s med bay in favor of paying Dr. Caustic another visit.